This Could Be Destiny
by novakirkland
Summary: 'I want to show you, you arrogant fool, that you're not as good as you think you are, that you are not as addictive as you think you are. After tonight' he said, enjoying each word 'you'll be needing me.' / Pirate days, rated M for a reason, human names used.


**AN: Okay so I was blocked (who am I kidding still I am) but the other day I was talking to my best friend about some random stuff and then I started talking about Hetalia and my obsession I mean love!, love for FrUK, and she said "How do you imagine their first time was like?" and TA-DA! this happened. **  
***Here they are in a "neutral" island where pirates used to meet, say, 'tortuga', for example (:**

**Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya  
Non-profit Writing... **

* * *

He didn't have to say a word.

With a single glare, England made the three men who were in that old wine cellar in the back of the tavern - the same tavern that also carried out the most private and secret meetings of the island - leave without any complaints or any kind of resistance.

Once they were alone, France secured the door behind him and leaned against it. He looked around noticing nothing but old barrels, dust, and the torch that subtly lit the room from a corner. Meanwhile, England went to sit on one of the wooden chairs surrounding a small table in the center of the cellar, he took off his black, wide hat, dropping it while sitting down.

"Now, what are you doing here?"

France raised an eyebrow.

"That's the only reason you needed me?"

England snorted "Need you? Don't be stupid" then he put his feet on the table, taking out the silver dagger hidden in one of his boots, fiddling with it absent-mindedly and without staring at the other man's eyes "I'm waiting for an answer."

"I'm here" he began "because I was planning to meet with Spain" at the mention of the country that at the time was as cheerful as dangerous, France noticed how the other man frowned "But I just found out that his ship does not arrive until tomorrow" he said, taking a few steps forward, placing his hands on both sides of England's legs "Why should you care, anyway?" he smiled seductively "Jealousy, perhaps?"

England kicked him seamlessly in the chest and stood up, pushing the table aside and looking intently into his blue eyes, pointing towards the door.

"You could be fucking a bloody prostitute or even that useless Spaniard for all I care; I just don't want to hear that you're planning something stupid."

France ignored the last words and stood firmly with his chin held high, trying to look down on the other despite the slight difference in their heights.

"Well, I guess you're right, _Angleterre_." he sighed "Why waste my time in this old room, _with you_, when there are so many ladies out there willing to have some fun with _moi _somewhere nicer... right?"

England's hands clenched into fists.

"Unless" he reached his hand to caress the collar of his shirt "That you want to be the lucky one."

Although he was just teasing, like always, France felt something between hope and amazement when the other man didn't answer him. He just stared back, emerald eyes totally unreadable.

"Prove it." England said quietly, breaking the silence.

"_Excusez-moi?_"

"Prove it" the man whispered "show me why I should let such a slimy frog get into my pants."

France backed away his hand.

He looked once again into those eyes; now they were full of determination, lust, and one more thing that he still couldn't decipher.

"Are you sure?"

England smirked and leaned closer, letting his lips stay just a few millimeters away from each other, teasing, and not daring to be the one to make the first move. "Show me"

"It is a plea, Captain?"

Green eyes darkened.

"It's a dare."

"And what If I say no?"

"Oh, are you really sure you can?" England replied with a grin, staring at the lips of the Frenchman who, in turn, smiled smugly in a desperate attempt to hide his emotions. Because they were there, he and the nation he hated to love, because it shouldn't be, yet it was, and now the man was standing before him, demanding, with the most tempting of their endless challenges.

France couldn't say no, never.

"Who knows?" calloused but strangely gentle fingers gripped his chin, and an authoritative voice and those deep, painfully green eyes reminded France of his position. "Maybe you might even end up being my personal toy; I could be nice to you."

France laughed.

_Nice? You are wild, impetuous, deadly. As deadly as the sea you possess, that sea that couldn't belong anyone else._

"Why?" asked France as calmly as possible "Why me?"

He already had his answer, but he wasn't going to give out so easily, he had to see the other reach his limits, see him angry, frustrated, desperate...

"I told you, you brag" England answered dryly, putting his hand in the other's chest and pushing him backwards, making him crash into the only free space of wall between stacks and stacks of dusty barrels "You go fucking half of the world and you say you're the best."

_Oh_

"So you want to be able to know."

"What?"

"My words and those rumors are not enough for you, you want to prove it by yourself" France paused, lowering his voice "You want me."

England took him harshly by the collar of his coat and pushed him against the wall once again "I want to show you, you arrogant fool, that you're not as good as you think you are, that you are not as addictive as you think you are. After tonight" he said, enjoying each word "you'll be_ needing me._"

For France's delight, England was losing it.

"Now show me what you've got" he repeated in a whisper, doubtful, not knowing how hard it was for the other man to restrain himself, to suppress the urge to take him right then and there, show him everything he asked for.

_Not yet._

Once again, he merely smiled.

"Regardez-vous, l'Empire britannique, agissant comme un enfant gâté." -_Look at yourself, the British Empire, acting like a spoiled brat -_

The dagger that England still held in his left hand hit his throat. He was breathing heavily and his eyes seemed to see through France, or at least it felt like so, and they were burning him, exciting him, saying the words that the owner would never dare to say out loud.

"Listen to me, you French bastard" England muttered "this is not a fucking game."

But it always is… the challenge, the teasing, the constant provocation; one says white and the other replies black, that's how it has always been and will remain that way for all eternity.

"It isn't?" France said, arching an eyebrow.  
"Shut up!" he spoke pressing the dagger even harder "and show me" he demanded one last time, their noses brushing and their breaths mixed.

France took the hand that held the dagger and snatched it, throwing it to the ground.

With one single, skillful move they changed their positions, now England was the one against the wall; France seized him by the neck, kissing him desperately. Those lips tasted exactly as he had always imagined, but a million times better because this time was _real_. He could taste the rum, the salt, the sand; and England kissed him back with the same force, licking, biting, and becoming more and more addicted to those mint lips by every minute.

They changed the dominance role like it was a game. _Wasn't always like that, anyway?_

An experienced hand made its way across his chest and upon the Englishman's crotch, stroking over the fabric of his pants, caressing the most intimate part of his body while those unbearable soft lips never stopped kissing him.

England pushed away that sinful and wonderful hand with one blow. "Don't forget the real purpose of this..." he said between kisses and moans "this is nothing."

He only received a nod as an answer.

France wasn't really paying attention.

In reality, England didn't want to get used to the touch,_ to touch_; because they weren't about to make love, not at all, this was a challenge and he and France would only satisfy their needs and nothing more. He ignored, on the other hand, that for the nation of love this was not the usual need, because it was not the usual lover, it was Arthur, finally beautiful Arthur.

He brought his hands to that wavy blond hair, removing the blue silk ribbon that kept it tied; said ribbon intertwined with his fingers and he kept it that way for reasons he not dared to think, clenching his fist to prevent it to fall. He pulled France's head back earning a quiet moan and started kissing his neck, his jaw, biting him occasionally as to remind the other, and himself, that this was not a demonstration of affection.

They get rid of their clothes to the point that the two men were now wearing no more than their unbuttoned shirts; England's of a pearly white and France's of a sky blue totally overshadowed by the piercing blue of his eyes, those eyes full of lust and… nothing, only lust.

England wrapped his legs around France's waist and dug his heels in his lower back once they began to move at the same pace, first slow, then perfect. He clung to the other's back, running his hands under his arms and shirt, digging his nails into the man's shoulders and biting his lower lip to not drop a word, nothing that he could regret later; and the Frenchman held his hips, helping to keep that rhythm that was about to drive them crazy, kissing his neck, dropping his shirt slowly and admiring every inch of skin he could, because Arthur was so new to him despite of being his older fantasy.

He let out sweet sentences in French that he hoped the other could not hear, but at the same time he would not mind to shout out loud. England _could,_ he just didn't want to, because he didn't wanted to think, he just wanted to keep feeling and hated himself because that shouldn't be feeling so terribly good.

They could have been wilder, noisier, but the only sound that filled the old room was the sound of two pairs of desperate lips, heavy breaths and poorly silenced moans.

Francis' heart could have burst out of joy in that moment, because Arthur was being his.

Or so he thought, until he noticed how his skin bristled under his touch, how his blood seemed to boil to feel his breath so close, and the wanting of those vicious, semi-parted lips, lips that were inviting him to kiss him senseless and make him moan his name, he realized that it was the other way around. He completely belonged to Arthur.

_This could be our own private, eternal war, don't you think? Wins the one who gives more of himself, without a final battle, with the possibility of seeking revenge over and over again..._

The Frenchman interrupted his thoughts when they both reached their climax; Francis burying his face in Arthur's neck, breathing him in because maybe this would not ever happen again, Arthur closing his eyes and arching his back with a wave of sensations and emotions running through his body.

They stood there for a moment, holding each other as they caught their breath, as they let their heartbeat go back to their normal rate, because the hearts of both were throbbing so hard and they were so close that it was difficult to even distinguish which belonged to which.

When England regained his senses, he pulled away from France abruptly and bent down to take his clothes. He got dressed quickly, leaving the room without saying a word and without giving a single glance back at his now lover.

His right hand remained clenched the whole time.

* * *

When the small crew that stayed awake saw their captain board his vessel that night, they noticed how he tied something to the helm, but no one dared to ask. And Arthur was glad that no other nation was allowed to get into any of his ships.

When France was finally dressed, he tried to tie his hair back but his blue ribbon was lost. He looked down expecting to find it but he only noticed the forgotten metal dagger lying on the ground.

He took it and gently stroked the handle, observing the tiny engraved emerald that decorated it; then he hid it in his boot, like England always did.

He smiled to himself as he walked towards the door.

"If you are going to keep something mine, I guess I can do it, too."


End file.
